


I Ain't a Rat

by Emmithar



Series: Whumptober 2020 [3]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Hurt No Comfort, Torture, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:54:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26840968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar
Summary: Whumptober 2020Prompt #1 Let's Hang Out SometimePrompt #12 I Think I've Broken Something 'Broken Trust'Prompt #31 Today's Special: Torture 'Left for Dead'“Aint...ain't a rat, Dutch,” he muttered quietly, no one there to hear the broken words. His insides were tight, and it was hard to breathe. “You gotta-gotta come soon.”
Series: Whumptober 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953217
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	I Ain't a Rat

His arms hurt.

It was a strange fixation, when he thought about it. Given everything else that had happened, his arms should be the least of his worries.

Rather he should be focused on the burn in the back of his throat-due to the lack of water. Or the pounding in his head from the repeated blows. How about the blood that coated his thigh, running down his leg and onto the floor below? That's where the bastard had stabbed him, digging the blade deep into the meat of his thigh, carving into muscle, nicking his bone...

Surely those were significantly more worrisome than the ache in his arms. Right?

But damn it all, his arms were throbbing...the metal cuffs bit into his wrists, attached to a chain that was embedded into the ceiling. His full weight pulling him further and further down, feet skimming the floor. If he stretched, he could just...just find some purchase. Lift himself up for the briefest of moments. Ease that horrible ace that was burning within his limbs.

Couldn't stay that way for long. Not after...how many days?

He didn't know. Arthur had long lost track of time. There was no light down here. No open windows, no cracks within these stone walls. No way to tell if it was the midst of the day, or in the depths of the night. The outside world was shut away. Lost...forgotten...

The only way he knew that time had passed was when _they_ came. He kept track that way. Counting the times they had ventured down, the scrapping of a door somewhere above announcing their arrival, the eerie glow of the lantern chasing away the shadows and drowning him in light that was often far too bright. 

Sometimes they brought water. Never enough to satiate, his thirst by now an ever burning desire, but it was enough to keep him alive. That was the important part.

Couldn't get answers out of a dead man, after all. 

They'd start off easy. Gently, almost. Canteen pressed against cracked lips, letting him drink greedily before pulling away, precious liquid soaking the front of him. They'd leave him gasping, head hanging weakly against his chest. Their words surrounding him. Talking about Dutch.

Always about Dutch.

Reports first. Calmly telling him where Dutch had last been seen. They'd read from the papers, divulging to him what meager information the agency already had. They would ask for his opinion, curious to know how much of it was true. Then the questions would change, more speculative as the time wore on. As though they were having friendly chat...

At first it was easy. Easy to answer their questions with sarcastic retorts, a humorless chuckle. To pretend that he hadn't been running with the man, acting as though he hadn't a clue to where Van der Linde was or what he might be up to. 

That had gotten harder as time wore on. Their patience had limits, after all. And when suggestive had failed, they had gotten...aggressive. He supposed that was the best way to word it. The damn bastards knew how to hit. How to make it hurt without causing serious damage. Precise, effective,  _painful_ .

Damn did it ever hurt. He knew...knew that underneath his tattered clothes lie a smattering of bruises. The pain blossoming anew with each and every visit. He also knew that bruises weren't the only thing the threadbare fabric concealed. 

Bastards like to use fire as well. Stoking the flames to life in the corner, the smoke filling the small space. Perhaps the only godsend, because they would have to kick it out before too long lest they all choke to death. But in the time it was up...even now he could still smell it. The stench of burnt flesh. The sheer agony as the heated blade was dabbled into his side. 

Never too deep. Never to severe; just simple physical pain. Bad enough to make him grit his teeth, to groan against fiery burn. The sheer heat alone cauterizing the wound almost as soon as it was made so he didn't even bleed. 

It wasn't pointless. The torture.

Oh no...questions were asked. Calm yet pointedly between each session. Letting him stew in his agony. A promise of ending it all if he just talked. Wanting to know why he was willing sacrifice himself for a such a dastardly man? He was offered a bargain, just then; give up Dutch in exchange for himself. Encouraged to spare himself anymore of this bleak outlook on life.

He had given them his answer. Had spat right in Milton's face. A considerable feat, seeing as near-dehydration had robbed him what little fluid he had left. That was when they had buried the knife in his leg. Straight to the bone, twisting, wrenching a scream from him. 

The first of many. 

He had passed out; had been roused by a bucket full of water, the icy water leaving him shivering. A pitiful whine escaping his lips as he struggled to keep his head up. By then he was starting to lose all sense of reason. His lucidity further pressed as the interrogation continued. New aches, new pains, new horrors inflicted upon him. To the point he couldn't keep track of what they were. He just knew that he hurt. Knew that they would be back. 

Knew that eventually, he would break. 

“Aint...ain't a rat, Dutch,” he muttered quietly, no one there to hear the broken words. His insides were tight, and it was hard to breathe. “You gotta-gotta come soon.”

He held onto the hope the man was looking.  _They_ had to be looking. He had taken Jack out fishing. Their trip, interrupted by the agents. Arthur had held his ground, but knew there was no getting out of there. Not for him. He had tossed the boy up on his horse, had sent them running. Had sacrificed himself to get the kid out of there. 

No doubt the gang had launched into action as soon as they came in. He could imagine Dutch, the man with a dark stare, that angry furor burning his eyes as he shouted the order. Could see it in his head, the lot of them racing down to the river. The gang tracking, Charles and Javier both with a keen set of eyes. They'd note the blood he'd left behind. They'd be able to follow the trail, would track him here...

Where ever here was. 

Arthur had been rendered unconscious shortly after the fight had started. Had come to here, trapped down in the darkness. Had only known _this_ world upon waking. It could be hours, since he was taking. Could be days. Could be...longer...

Certainly felt like it. He swallowed the painful lump that was in his throat, hid away the fear that was burning in his chest. The door above had opened. It squeaked heavily on its hinges, the steps echoing around him in hollow air. 

At least there was just one of them this time. 

It did little to soothe the ache in his chest. Strung up as he was, there only  _needed_ to be one. He was helpless, defenseless. Vulnerable. Left to their mercy. The low chuckle hitting his ears, turning the blood that was coursing through his veins to ice. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. 

Then the voice-

“Hello, cowpoke. Nice to see you...hanging around.”

“Micah,” the word broken, rushing from his battered throat. He lifted his head, blinking in the light, the man standing mere feet in front of him. His eyes trailed his form, an amused expression coating his features. For Arthur, the relief was almost palpable. 

They had found him. 

He could almost cry. 

Probably would. Later...he would cry later. Right now he just wanted to get out of here. His voice was still rough, breaking the odd silence between them.

“Get me down from here.”

“Now why would I do that?” Micah hummed. He still hadn't moved. He simply watched him, waiting for a response. 

“What the hell you going on about?” 

  
They had _never_ seen eye to eye. Had never found a reason to agree on  _anything_ . Micah was loose cannon, liked to run his damn mouth, liked to stir up trouble wherever they went. Too hot headed and lacking enough sense to rub together to figure things out. But Dutch liked him, and that's all there was to it. 

And Dutch, he knew, had sent Micah to find him. Arthur told him this, announced with confidence, a hint of elation that his woes were finally over. But Micah...Micah was just watching him. That perturbed grin on his face, a soft chuckle that chilled him to the core.

“Oh yeah, Dutch sent me alright,” the man confirmed, stepping near him. “Thinks you're working with them. Thinks you're good friends with the Pinkertons.”

“He wouldn't think that,” Arthur growled, his heart racing. Denial strong at first, but then fading. Faint memories clawing their way forth, a whisper, a threat. Dutch himself, words muttered but still heard. 

_I expect you'll betray me in the end. You're the type._

_That so?_

_You tell me._

Unexpected. Unprovoked. He had brushed it off. Thought it a joke. A poor attempt of humor after all the stress of Blackwater. Of losing everyone. Of Dutch simply overthinking...and now? Now he wasn't so sure...

“Dutch's afraid you're gonna talk,” Micah went on, that mirth still playing in his voice. “We can't have that, now can we?”

“I ain't said nothing,” he protested, his resolve crumbling.

“No? Well...” the man trailed off, nodding after a moment. “Good...that's real-real fine. Good to know that you're still _loyal_. I'll be sure to let Dutch know. He'll be proud of you, cowpoke. Real proud.”

“You can't leave me here,” he growled, anger surfacing now. Growing as he heard the man laugh.

“Oh? I can't, can I? Cause the way I see it, I've had to listen to all your _bluster_ these past six months and now? Now I have an opportunity to watch you be silenced.”

He closed his eyes, the words settling deep in his gut, the irony clear and intentional. The same exact thing he had told Micah a few weeks back prior to busting him out of jail. The desire to leave him there overwhelming, overshadowed only by the expectation from Dutch that he'd spare the man from the noose. But here?

Arthur wasn't holding his breath. Still, he tried. He was a damn fool, but even fools held onto hope.

“Micah, it don't need to be this way-”

“Sorry, cowpoke. I'm just following Dutch's orders.”

“Dutch wouldn't-”

“Oh, but he did,” the man laughed, that smile back on his face. “Order every single gun to come find you...and silence you, before you betrayed us all.”

“I told you; I didn' say anything.”

“And like I said; you did a real fine job. And now? We're gonna make sure it stays that way,” he cooed gently, pulling free the knife from his belt. “Just think of it as taking one for the gang...I'm sure Dutch will appreciate your...sacrifice.”

He closed the gap between them, the knife held ready.

The cell, buried far beneath the surface, drowned out the scream that followed.

* * *

Daylight greeted him as he pushed his way through the door, wiping a bloodied hand off on his jacket, a smile on his face. Oh what a glorious day it was. The cloudless, cerulean sky a beautiful and beckoning sight. The breeze fresh...well almost, soured by the heaps of dung scattered around in the surrounding pens. He never understood why people willing subjected themselves to such filthy work. The frown creasing his face as he watched a farmer fill up the trough with slop.

“Find anything?”

Micah jumped, a curse sputtering through his lips. God damn fool. A snarl on his face as he turned towards him.

“No. Ain't nothing here; we're wasting time. We all know Morgan's dead.”

“Not likely; the Pinkertons would want him to hang publicly,” Javier argued, pushing past him. “He's gotta be here, so keep looking.”

He let out a scoff, head nodding in a mock bow as he took off down the street. Three days; three god damn days of being out here in the dung heap, searching everywhere. Dutch pushing them all, frantic and worried, fuckin' consumed over Morgan's disappearance. Unwilling to listen, unable to just cut the ties and move on like he had with the others. He was one, goddamn man.

Dutch acted like he was the world.

Micah pushed his way into the saloon, sauntered up the counter. The coins slapped down, the whiskey ordered. It burned his throat, in all the best ways possible. He'd let all them other fools keep looking. Maybe they'd find him.

Maybe not.

Not that it mattered.

Mildly, he wondered, if the Pinkertons would even announce the man's death. If it would show up in the papers, commending the agents for a job well down. The capture and death of one infamous Arthur Morgan.

He laughed, taking another drink.

Not so infamous anymore, was he?


End file.
